


This World of Night

by StrictlyNoFrills



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Based on The Little Vampire, Fantasy, Gen, Halloween Challenge, Kid Fic, Minor Character Death, Set in the year of our Lord 2000, Tale Teller’s Fright Night 2020, Vampires, because that’s when the movie came out, none of which is inflicted on the children in this story, physical and psychological trauma consistent with bearing the One Ring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27252430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrictlyNoFrills/pseuds/StrictlyNoFrills
Summary: Samwise Gamgee moves to Grey Haven with his family, and his life is never quite the same.
Relationships: Drogo Baggins/Primula Brandybuck, Frodo Baggins & Sam Gamgee, Hamfast Gamgee/Bell Goodchild
Comments: 23
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my piece for the Halloween Challenge over on Tumblr, Tale Teller’s Fright Night 2020. Thank you, sdavid09 for putting this together!
> 
> The film my story loosely follows is, naturally, _The Little Vampire_. The song which I was supposed to incorporate is _Bad Moon Rising_ , by Credence Clearwater Revival, which I _LOVE_.
> 
> If you would like to see the cover art for this story, as well as the soundtrack, you can find it here, on my Tumblr: https://strictlynofrills.tumblr.com/post/633276319573147648/heres-the-soundtrack-to-my-story-for-this-years None of the songs were released after the year 2000, in which our story is set.
> 
> And be sure to check out the rest of the Tale Teller's Fright Night Fics! :)

Prim studied the band encircling her finger. It was flawless, as she might expect from so meticulous a suitor, the gold lustrous and uninterrupted by gems or inscription. Simple. Elegant.

Unwelcome.

With the ease of certainty, Prim slid the band off her ring finger and pressed it back into the vicar’s hands.

“It’s beautiful, Mister Sauron. Truly. But I cannot accept it, nor can I accept your proposal. I have an understanding with your brother, as you know, and I will not break it.”

Sauron stared down at her with disappointed understanding but pressed the ring into her palm.

“Even if you cannot accept my proposal, I bid you to keep the ring. It was crafted for you and shall belong to none other.”

She gazed up at him and bit her lip in thought. What could the harm be, if she kept his token, and in so doing, eased his heart? Rather than placing his ring upon her third finger, she placed it upon her first, and though there was some slight difference in the diameter of the two digits, the ring still fit perfectly.

Rising to the balls of her feet, Prim pressed a kiss to Sauron’s cheek. “Thank you for understanding. I hope we may part as friends.”

“Of course, my dear. I anticipate that we shall remain close for many years to come.”

“I would like that,” Prim said before curtseying and departing from the church courtyard.

At the gates, Lord Baggins waited, his top hat in his hands. He beamed upon seeing her approach, and held out his arm to her.

“Would you allow me the honor of escorting you home, Miss Brandybuck?”

Prim was helpless against the desire to smile back, and why should she resist? Drogo Baggins was kind and earnest in everything he did, if a bit serious for her taste, and he looked at her with stars in his eyes. Anyone would be hard-pressed to argue with such ardent attentions, and Primula Brandybuck found, as she had increasingly over the months of his dedicated courtship, that she had no wish to do so.

She reached him and laced her arm through his, feeling once more the little thrill that ever ran through her at his nearness.

The ring upon her index finger seemed to burn against her skin for a moment, and she sucked in a breath, but then the heat dissipated, and Prim determined that she was imagining the heat, for what other explanation could there be?

* * *

On a brilliantly sunny day in early June, Prim stood with her hands in Drogo’s and joined her life with his under the solemn eyes of his brother.

The members of their village’s parish cheered and showered them with rice as they stepped out of the church and into the first day of their new life.

Drogo helped her up into the carriage, and Prim’s heart swelled at the unbridled joy in his bright blue eyes, certain that she had never felt so happy, and that nothing could ever mar this incandescent bliss.

At that moment, Sauron’s ring burned hotter than ever against her index finger, and she let out a hiss of discomfort. Thankfully, it was covered by the jovial cacophony of their friends and family as they waited to send them off, but Prim wondered how much longer she could hide the truth of it from her new husband. She knew he would want to protect her in some way, but there was little that he could do against a ring that refused to leave her finger.

She had tried melting it, pawning it, throwing it in the depths of the sea, and yet every morning, when she woke, it clutched malevolently at her finger, and if ever Drogo dared to please her in some way, it burned as a brand against her skin.

This was, unfortunately, not hyperbole. Prim now had a perfect circle of scarred flesh upon her left index finger, so that even if she should discover a way to permanently discard the ring, or even destroy it, she would never be free of the memory of it, nor of the one who bestowed it.

Briefly, Prim closed her eyes against the horror and the shame of the matter.

A kiss upon her knuckles jerked her out of her dark thoughts.

“Are you well, my dear?” Drogo asked, looking anxious.

 _Nothing will mar this_ , she reminded herself firmly.

She leaned toward her husband and pressed a kiss to his worried lips.

“Perfect, my love,” she assured him. “Merely ready for the breakfast banquet. It took quite a while to prepare for our wedding today, and I find myself quite famished.”

Drogo, who had lit up upon receiving a kiss from his young bride – their second! – kissed her again and promised her, “We will be there shortly, and you may eat until you are fit to burst. So long as we both shall live, my dear, you shall want for nothing.”

“And if I grow slow and fat?”

“Then I shall carry you wherever you wish to go.”

“And if I am too heavy for you to carry?”

“I shall commission a bier and four young men to bear you.”

“And will you love me still, when I am so encumbered?”

“I will love you even more, as there will be even more of you to love.”

Prim giggled and rested her head against his chest, the problem of Sauron’s ring entirely forgotten, save for the warning flare against her skin.

* * *

In spite of Drogo’s best efforts to cater to her every whim, Prim never did manage to grow slow and fat enough to require anyone to carry her, though she did swell with their first child soon enough. Drogo delighted in carrying her around their estate simply because he could, and because her ankles grew quite troublesome.

It would seem that Drogo spoke truly on the day of their wedding, as every day that their child grew, and Prim’s middle along with it, Drogo’s love for her only increased.

Then, on September 22, Frodo took his first wailing breaths in the world, and their love and happiness grew more still, even as the gold band upon Prim’s index finger burned so hotly she feared it would sear straight through to the bone.

She tiredly kissed Frodo’s little forehead and pretended the tears in her eyes stemmed only from joy, and not pain.

* * *

Ten years after Frodo’s birth, Prim felt her heart lurch within her breast, beating frantically as a bird against the confines of a cage. She bent forward under the pressure of it, gasping for air and clutching at her chest.

Through the ringing in her ears, she realized she could hear the sounds of her children crying out in similar distress. She struggled to rise and go to them – especially Pippin, not yet six years of age, whose high-pitched wailing pierced through her soul – but found that she could not move.

Drogo dashed between them, begging for answers and calling the servants for aid, but she and their sons could not respond.

At last, Prim’s heart took one more frantic, hard beat, and then stopped.

She panted and wondered why she was still here, and still in pain. Shouldn’t she be gone to face her Lord for judgement?

Swallowing roughly against a fresh wave of agony, this time in her throat, she groaned and trembled and then fought to stand.

“Prim?” Drogo asked, seeing her move at last.

The knife-like pain in her throat drove deeper and sharper as she turned to face him, her eyes fixed upon the pulsing of his carotid artery.

She could hear his heart still pounding away in his chest, and the wet squelching and the sight of that minute motion in his neck drew her forward, an undeniable thirst roaring to life within her.

Thirst?

Thirst for _what?_

She stopped moving towards her husband and chose to kneel beside Pippin, instead, brushing his sweat-soaked curls out of his face. He, too, seemed enthralled by Drogo, as did Frodo and Merry, and an awful idea began to take root in her mind.

* * *

Drogo stared at all his little loves, bewildered by their sudden ailment and the strange hunger in their eyes.

“Prim? My love?” His voice quavered, and he glanced from his wife to his sons in dismay. "Are you well, my heart?”

Prim closed her eyes and then called to their children.

“Come, darlings. Let us find something to eat. It has been a long day, and you look weak with hunger.” She looked up at Drogo and told him, “I think it would be best if we went on holiday for a while, the children and I. There is much to be done around our land for harvest, and I fear we would only be underfoot.”

Drogo wished to voice his objections. Sharing in the work of the harvest on their estate was one of his greatest joys as a father. Yet something, some sixth sense, warned him against the desires of his heart.

“As you wish, my darling. Perhaps you might retire to our cottage by the sea?”

“But Papa, I want to pick pumpkins with you,” little Pippin whined, broken-hearted.

“Not this year, Pippin my lad,” Drogo told him with obvious regret.

“Come on, Pip,” Merry said, grabbing the hand not holding onto their mother’s skirt.

Frodo went to Drogo, and Prim shifted towards him nervously, but she need not have worried. He kissed his father upon the cheek and gave him this solemn vow, “I shall take care of them, Papa.”

“I know you will, my boy,” Drogo said, laying a loving hand upon his firstborn’s shoulder. “Be strong, lad.”

“Yes, father.”

Together, with only the supplies and belongings they could pack in a single trunk each, they fled their manor for the little cottage by the sea, ushered on their path by a blood red moon.

The morning after their flight from the manor, a letter arrived. Prim tried to step outside to fetch it, but the sun scalded her, and so she retreated into the cool shade of the cottage and returned with a parasol.

The letter was from Drogo’s brother.

Her husband had suffered a heart attack. He was gone.


	2. Chapter 1

The cottage was a decent enough size, though not what Sam would have chosen for a family of six. The view of the ocean from every window at the front of the stone building was nothing to sniff at, though, nor the short trek until he could dip his toes into the salty, bracing waves.

If only he could dunk his sisters in there without catching hell from his gaffer, life would be grand.

He ran his fingers across the sea shells lined along the window sill, admiring the care the previous owner must have taken in cleaning them and placing them just so. Good thing he had been able to talk the contractors into leaving his room mostly the way they had found it when Rafe King, the personal assistant of his new employer had shown them the cottage where Hamfast Gamgee would like as not spend the rest of his life tending Lord Baggins’s grounds and maintaining his gardens.

Better still, Sam, as the only boy and the eldest of the lot, had been allowed to have this room all to himself. His sisters were packed together like four noisy, opinionated sardines in a single room, and were pretty unimpressed by the situation.

Not Sam’s problem.

He pursed his lips in an effort to stave off a smile, feeling some vague, obligatory guilt. He loved his sisters. He did. But there was something to be said for a bit of room to breathe every now and then.

Turning away from the window and its row of little treasures, Sam went to check his backpack for the fourth or fifth time (He had rather lost count.) to ensure that he had everything he would need for the first day at his new school.

“Tape,” he muttered to himself. “I haven’t packed any tape, and better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.”

It was something his mother had said many times over the years, and Sam had absorbed the adage as he had absorbed many such things from both his parents in his so-far short life. As with all their other pieces of wisdom, it had served him well in the past, and he was certain it would serve him equally well in the future.

Mission in mind, Sam headed out of his new room and towards the kitchen, admiring the soft, butter yellow paint on the walls in the hallway. They were cheerful but not too loud, and were a nice change from the plain white paint that had filled the walls of their old house.

Friendly. These walls were friendly.

He stepped into the kitchen and found his mother standing on the countertop, putting up the various tins and small paintings of cows, lining the tops of the cabinets in the same way she had in their old kitchen.

Sam knocked lightly on the doorframe, not wishing to startle his mother while she was so precariously perched.

She glanced over at him after placing the latest knickknack, blinking eyes the exact same shade as his own before the corners creased with a warm smile.

“Hey, baby. Do you need something?”

Sam smiled back at her and shrugged. “Thought I should take some tape to school with me.” He paused and added, “Maybe some plasters, too.”

His mother shot him an indulgent look as she tucked some of her light brown curls back behind the scarf she’d tied around her hair. “Did you? Hmm. The tape should be in the first drawer on the left, and the plasters…” She pursed her lips in thought. “Try the pantry? The first aid kit should be in there.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

“You’re welcome. Do you have everything else? Did you get all your clothes put away?”

“Yes, and yes,” Sam replied as he rummaged through the drawer, which was already filled with batteries, a few screw drivers, and, oddly enough, plastic spoons, forks, and knives left over from past takeaway orders.

He’d never understood how plasticware went with batteries, but then, he also had never asked. He found the tape and snagged a fresh roll. Then he slipped it into his jean pocket and turned toward the pantry.

The first aid kit was right beside the fire extinguisher, just as it had been in their last home. He grinned at his mother’s practical predictability and pulled the kit down from the second shelf from the top.

After setting the kit down on the counter, he opened the twin catches and found the plasters – all latex-free, since Marigold was allergic – and in assorted colors. He picked out the blue ones, since blue was his favorite color, and put the kit back where he found it.

“Since you’re in here, do you want to go ahead and pack your lunch?”

“Sure, Ma,” Sam agreed.

He doubted she had packed lunches for his sisters yet, which meant Sam would have first pick of everything – never a guarantee in their house, so he should take advantage of it while he had the chance. In short order, a PB&J sandwich, crisps, a bag of carrots, the last of the Gala apples, and some goldfish for an after school snack all sat snugly in his lunchbox.

“Dinner’s in twenty minutes, so that gives you enough time to unpack and repack your backpack – what? five? – more times, at least?” his mother said after Sam put his lunch box in the fridge.

He wrinkled his nose up at her and shook his head with a small girn. “Funny, Ma. But this is the last time – I think.”

“Uhuh.”

“I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” he said, rolling his eyes lightly.

“I saw that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

She wasn’t looking at him. She was putting another knickknack in its place.

“Sure did.”

He huffed a laugh and then said again, “Twenty minutes.”

He only unpacked and repacked his backpack two more times. He decided he needed a few more pencils, just in case.

Dinner was a noisy, cheerful affair as they all argued over rights to what they considered the best slices of the cheese and pepperoni pizzas. Posey and Poppy, the twin terrors, had a breadstick battle. It was difficult to say who won, but they were both thoroughly covered in marinara sauce and garlic butter by the end.

Sam helped his mother chivvy the twins off to the lavatory for their nightly bath, and then he joined his gaffer in the little nook that had become his office for a bit of a chat before bed. He thought perhaps the tiny room might have been a storage cellar, once upon a time. It was just off of the kitchen, and now contained a wooden desk, which took up most of the space, two chairs – one behind the desk and one in front of it – a set of shelves along the back wall containing a series of largely practical reading material, such as how-to’s for balancing the budget, gardening and landscaping guides, weather almanacs, and the like, and the computer his gaffer had owned for as long as Sam could remember. It was a boxy, light beige thing, quite outdated from the models used at school, but his gaffer wouldn’t hear of replacing it.

Hamfast Gamgee was a man who did not look kindly upon change. The fact that he had accepted this new position and moved his entire family here was shocking, and Sam had a feeling those changes would be the only ones in their household for about a decade.

The gaffer passed Sam a cup of hot cocoa, made exactly how he liked it, a cinnamon stick poking over the top of the steaming liquid. As Sam stuck his nose over the mug and took a long, deep breath of the sugary, rich scent, his gaffer took a similarly long drag of his tobacco pipe and regarded Sam solidly.

“Are you ready for tomorrow, Sam?” Hamfast asked after blowing out a slightly wavy ring of smoke.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, sir.”

His gaffer hummed. “Well, you’ve always been a good sort, lad. Just mind your teachers and keep your head out of the clouds, and you’ll do well enough.”

Sam felt his cheeks flush. He _was_ a good student – kept his grades up and his head down – but his mind did wander at times, and his assignments had been known to turn up in his teacher’s inbox with little doodles and scraps of stories or poems in the margins. They usually related at least tangentially to the material tackled in the assignments themselves, but his teachers over the years had responded to his mental meanderings with varying levels of enthusiasm. His third year teacher had loved them, while his fourth year teacher had considered them a bit of an affront.

This year, Sam was determined to avoid giving his new teachers anything to discuss with his parents during their parent-teacher conferences; he now had a spiral notebook entirely dedicated to any extraneous scribbling he might feel compelled to do.

“Yes, sir,” he said dutifully, taking a sip of his hot cocoa to avoid elaborating.

“Hmm. Good lad.”

They sat and enjoyed their respective vices and exchanged a bit more small talk until Marigold poked her head inside and told him, “Gaffer, Ma says it’s time for Daisy and me to take our bath, and you’re supposed to come read a story to Poppy and Posey.”

Sam stood from his seat in front of the desk, drained the last few sips of his hot cocoa, which had cooled considerably, and bade their gaffer goodnight. He tugged one of Marigold’s golden curls lightly as he passed her.

“Night, Mari.”

“Goodnight, Sam.”

After stepping into the kitchen to give his mug a quick scrub, he set it in the dishwasher and then headed to his room, appreciating the sky blue walls and the white bookshelves, and, of course, the view –

Which was even better than before, because the window was open. He stopped and stared for a moment, and then glanced around, checking for any signs of an intruder.

Everything looked the way it should. The two boxes of books he still needed to shelve remained undisturbed, as did the clothes hanging up in his closet.

He dropped down to the floor, on the navy blue rug which covered most of the wooden paneling, and peered under the light blue bed skirt. Nothing.

Dropping the bed skirt, he got up and decided to change into his pajamas – _after_ closing and locking the window.

Maybe one of his sisters had wanted to watch the sun set over the sea, and hadn’t closed the window before she left. That sounded like something Daisy would do.

Sam changed into a set of thick, red plaid pajamas and read the next chapter of _Bunnicula_ while he waited for his middle sisters to finish in the lavatory. A little while later, Marigold thumped on his door as she passed by.

“It’s all yours!”

He went and brushed his teeth and washed his face before giving his underarms a sniff.

Whoof. He’d definitely need to shower in the morning. This whole using deodorant thing was taking a while to get used to. He was never sure how much would be enough.

He stepped out of the lavatory and nearly ran into his mother, who took the opportunity to drop a kiss on the top of his head.

“Love you, baby. Sweet dreams.”

“Love you, too, Ma. Goodnight.”

He went to his room and left the door open just a crack, in case Daisy had a nightmare and Marigold just wouldn’t do. It was a pity Marigold kicked in her sleep, and their gaffer snored loud enough to wake the dead.

One last time, Sam plucked everything out of his backpack, looked it all over, and nodded. Good enough.

He was pretty sure.

He set the bag by the door after putting everything back in and he looked over the outfit folded up on his desk chair. His good red jumper, an undershirt, pants, and his least worn pair of khaki trousers, along with a black pair of trainers he had managed to keep mostly clean and unscuffed, and a pair of black socks with no holes.

Flipping the light switch, he peered out into the hall, making sure that his gaffer had remembered to plug in the little nightlight in the hallway outlet, so no one would trip on the way to the lavatory in the middle of the night. The little clear nightlight, shaped like a starfish, bathed the hallway in a warm yellow glow.

Perfect.

He slipped all the way inside his room and padded over to the twin bed, pulling back the quilt covered in little sailboats and wondering if maybe he should ask his mother to make him something a little more grown up for Christmas. Maybe. If only for the friends he hoped to make and have over to visit.

Sam wasn’t cool, and he was resigned to the fact that he never would be, but he could at least attempt to avoid being considered a total dork.

For a moment, he felt a twinge of home-sickness, and a longing for the friends he’d already had before the move.

Fatty didn’t care what Sam’s bedspread looked like. His was covered in dancing teddy bears.

Sam climbed under the covers and pulled them up to his chin.

“You can do this. How bad can it be? Just – just be yourself, like Ma always says, and you’ll make friends just fine.”

A soft rustling noise made Sam freeze.

“Daisy?”

Surely it was too soon for her to have had a nightmare… wasn’t it?

He waited and listened for what felt like an eternity after that, but he didn’t hear anything more. After breathing a sigh of relief, he turned over and burrowed into his pillow. He was probably just imagining things. Fatty would say he was paranoid, and he’d probably be right.

Closing his eyes tightly, Sam started counting backwards from one hundred. He’d seen doctors tell patients to do that before they got knocked out for surgical procedures on the telly. Maybe it would help him fall asleep now?

But he kept worrying about stumbling over the numbers, and he’d have to wrack his brain to see if he’d missed one, and by the time he was a third of the way through, Sam felt more wide awake and anxious than ever.

He stopped and took a deep breath, and thought about Fantasia instead. He imagined riding on Falkor’s back and saving the beautiful Empress, and as he pictured himself high-fiving Etreyu, he began to drift off…


	3. Chapter 2

There was something awful about the moon. Something eerie and chilling. Its normally silvery light had been misplaced by a malevolent, blood red sheen.

Sam recoiled from the sight of it, from the inherent _wrongess_ , and caught a glint of gold out of the corner of his eye. He turned to face the apparition and…

“ _I’m walkin’ on sunshine, whoa-oh, I’m walkin’ on sunshine, woah-oh, I’m walkin’ on sunshine, woah-oh, and don’t it feel good?_ ”

Groaning, Sam rolled over until he could reach out and smack the radio alarm clock his parents had given him for his birthday. He wondered, and not for the first time, if it was more curse than blessing.

Sam groaned again, pressed even deeper into his pillow and bedding, and then he gave in.

“First day of school, Samwise,” he muttered to himself with precocious sardonicism. “Rise and shine and greet the day.”

School was… school.

His teacher, Mrs. Proudfoot, was nice enough, and Sam didn’t feel as though he was behind in anything – possibly even a little ahead in English and History – and one girl, at least, seemed nice enough.

Rosie Cotton had invited Sam to sit with her and her friends at lunch, and Sam took the offer gladly. Who cared if they were girls? New kids couldn’t afford to be choosy, or they’d just wind up sitting alone.

Ted Sandyman was a bit of a jerk, and so was Otho Sackville-Baggins, but Sam figured every class had one or two of those. He’d just have to ignore them, and if that didn’t work… Well, his gaffer had taught him how to handle himself in a fight, as a last resort. Sam would be fine.

Sam, Marigold, and Daisy all trooped home in a line, passing the bag of goldfish Sam had packed back and forth, because both of the girls had already eaten all their food at lunch.

It was a good thing Sam had been generous when he poured the cheesy crackers into the little ziplock bag last night.

“When can we go back to Hobbiton?” Daisy asked after heaving a heavy sigh.

“I think we’re pretty much stuck here,” Sam said, watching his trainers scuff along the sidewalk. “Gaffer’s getting paid good money for this new gardening job. Real good.”

“But all my friends are there, and none of the girls here like me.”

That was rough, especially since Daisy always had one friend or another over at the house when they lived back home. She’d been friends with every girl in her year, or near enough to it.

“There’s gotta be at least one girl here who seems nice,” he probed.

“Well, yeah, they seem nice, but they don’t want to include me in their groups because they’re all worried about what their friends will think.”

Sam shrugged. “Ma would say to give it time.”

“Yeah, but what if it takes forever?”

Sam huffed. “Forever’s a long time, Daisy. I’m pretty sure it won’t take that long. Give it a few weeks, alright?” He glanced at Marigold, hoping a change of subject would distract his eldest sister. ‘What about the girls in your class? They alright?”

Marigold shrugged vaguely. “I guess.”

 _Helpful, Mari_.

“What about you? Are the kids in your year nice?”

Ted and Otho popped into his head, but Sam shoved thoughts of the two hellions away. “They seem nice enough.”

Daisy glared at him scornfully. “You’re a rotten liar, Sammy.”

“No, they really do,” Sam protested. “Mostly.”

“Uhuh.” Well aware of how shy Sam tended to be, Daisy asked, “Well, if they’re so nice, did you make any friends today?”

Sam kicked a rock with the tip of his trainer. “Sort of. I’m working on it.”

Daisy opened her mouth, but Marigold beat her to it.

“Oh, lay off, Dais. Just because you’re in a foul mood, that doesn’t mean you have to take it out on Sammy.”

Daisy scowled, but then she sighed and let it go.

"Sorry, Sammy. I just… really hate it here.”

“Don’t say ‘hate, Dais,” Marigold said. “Gaffer said so.”

“It’s not like it’s a bad word, Mari. I’ll say it if I want. It’s not hurting anybody.”

Marigold took the bag of goldfish from Sam’s unresisting hands, scooped out a few, and then turned to shove them into Daisy’s mouth. “Just – be quiet for a bit. Eat your goldfish.”

Sam stuffed his hand into his mouth, glad he was walking ahead of them so that they couldn’t see him grinning at Daisy’s plight. Marigold may have only been seven, but she could out-mother anyone, including Ma, and she had no qualms about inflicting her maternal tendencies on her older siblings, and Daisy in particular. Daisy seemed to bear the brunt of Marigold’s lovingly forceful personality more often than not. Probably because of how close in age they were, which meant they tended to be thrown together much like Poppy and Posey, though they were, thankfully, much easier to tell apart, due to Marigold’s long, blond curls, and Daisy’s short, straight brown hair. Aside from that, Daisy was shorter than Marigold by a few inches. Sam had a theory that Daisy’s larger-than-life personality was her way of compensating for being a bit of a runt.

The rest of their walk home was much more peaceful, although that was probably more due to the goldfish remaining in Daisy’s possession than any sort of truce being reached.

Maybe Daisy’s blood sugar had gotten low again.

When they trooped in through the front door, their mother called out to them, letting them know that she was in the kitchen.

Naturally, Poppy and Posey were with her. Unnaturally, they were covered in something that looked vaguely like ectoplasm.

Sam glanced at their mother for some kind of explanation.

“We were finger painting, only the girls decided to mix the yellow and the green, and then they decided it looked better on each other than the paper.”

She reached up to brush some hair out of her face, only to stop and stare consideringly at her own paint-stained hands.

Sam tilted his head. “I think they added a hosepipe in the back during the remodeling.”

Their mother looked up at that, a mischievous grin stretching across lips exactly the same as Sam’s own.

“And don’t we have a few water guns somewhere?”

“I think we might,” their Ma said.

What followed was a water battle of epic proportions. By the end, even Daisy was smiling, gleefully pelting Sam with water.

Sam turned the hose on her, making her shriek and sputter.

Thankfully, the water battle did more than lift everyone’s spirits. It also served to remove the bulk of the paint from Poppy and Posey, which was the ultimate goal.

When it was over, they dried off with their beach towels and then went inside to enjoy the chicken pot pie their mother had put together while the twins had a nap earlier in the afternoon.

Gaffer came home just as their mother was cutting the first slice. He gave each of them a kiss on the crown and then said, “That smells incredible, my dear. Is that piece for me?”

“Let me see your hands, Ham Gamgee.”

He showed her hands that were mostly clean, the only dirt marring them stuck beneath his fingernails.

“Good enough for me,” she decided warmly.

She plated the first slice, handed it to their gaffer, and accepted the kiss he dropped upon her upturned mouth before he walked over to the dining table.

Dinner was quieter tonight, having spent a good amount of time wearing Poppy and Posey out earlier.

They talked a little about school, and about their gaffer’s new job, and their mother’s forays into teaching the twins how to read.

Daisy, thankfully, kept her feelings about Grey Haven to herself, though there was no telling how long that would last.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly until Sam walked into his bedroom to change into his pajamas.

He stopped and stared.

The window was open.

He did a sweep of his room and then went to the girls’ room, where their gaffer was reading the twins a bedtime story, their mother sitting on the edge of Posey’s bed. He caught her eye and then motioned for her to follow him into the hallway.

“Did you need something, sweetheart?”

“Did you go into my room today?” Sam asked, trying to sound curious instead of accusatory.

She thought about it and then shook her head. “Nope. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“The window is open. I closed it last night, when I found it open the first time, and I haven’t touched it since.”

His mother frowned lightly. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Hmm. It’s probably just the wind. The latch on that window isn’t very secure. Maybe Hamfast can tighten it or replace it with a newer one this weekend.”

“Yeah… Alright,” Sam agreed doubtfully.

His mother peered at him closely, looking concerned. “You alright, love?”

“I’m fine, Ma. Really.” He rose up onto the balls of his feet to peck her on the cheek. “Night, Ma. Love you.”

“I love you, too, Sammy. Sweet dreams.”

Sam plodded back down the hall to his room, his thoughts whirling. There had to be some sort of explanation for the open window, and the presence of ghosts was, no matter what Fatty might think, not a logical explanation.

If only he could catch whoever was opening and closing the window red-handed…

A brief flash of Poppy and Posey covered in lurid green paint had Sam turning back and heading towards the kitchen on near-silent feet. Once there, he snagged the roll of clingfilm and the bottle of bright red, washable paint. Then, his heart pounding in a thrilling sort of fear, he scurried back to his room.

Closing the bedroom door, he walked to the other side of his bed, where there was about four feet of flooring between his bed and the window, two feet of which were not covered by the rug.

He knelt down and began unrolling the clingfilm, laying a few sheets out and layering them. It took a while to place the make-shift dropcloth the way he wanted, because the clingfilm insisted on getting stuck to itself. Eventually, though, he managed to make the ornery material behave. He set the clingfilm roll aside and opened the bottle of paint, pouring it out in lines that zig-zagged back and forth across the plastic. Once a good amount of the surface area was covered by thick lines of red, Sam capped the bottle and returned the paint and clingfilm to the pantry in the kitchen.

By the time Sam had rushed back into his room, changed, and slumped into his desk chair to crack open Bunnicula, Marigold and Daisy had wrapped up their bath and brushed their teeth. Daisy indicated this by slapping her palm against his bedroom door and calling, “Night, loser!”

Sam rolled his eyes, closed his book, and went to brush his own teeth. He caught his eyes in the mirror as he ran his toothbrush up and down, and he blinked. He looked – odd. His eyes were fever-bright, and his cheeks were flushed.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t run into either of his parents in the hallway. He had no idea how he would explain himself. Daisy, brat though she might have been, was also right: Sam was a piss poor liar.

He shook his head at himself and leaned forward to spit into the sink drain. He’d just have to be quick.

Miracles must exist, because he was able to turn in for the night without encountering his mother or his gaffer, and he leaned against the inside of the bedroom door with a sigh of relief. He debated cracking it slightly for Daisy and then decided against it. He wasn’t feeling up to being a good big brother tonight, and she’d been a pretty rotten little sister for most of the day. If she had a nightmare, she could just sort herself out.

He crawled into bed and stared at his little trap, both wanting and not wanting someone to spring it.

That night, he fell asleep while trying to come up with a way to explain away the sudden reduction in the twins’ supply of red paint, since the bottle was now significantly lower.

Perhaps thoughts of the red paint could explain the return of the large, looming crimson moon in his dreams. As before, when he turned to try and discover the source of the strange glimmer out of the corner of his eye, a noise pulled him out of his slumber.

First came a thick splat, and as Sam grunted and opened his eyes, the splat was followed by a series of wet, crinkling sounds.

As he realized what was happening, Sam shot up in his bed and turned to face the intruder, fully expecting to see one of his sisters.

Instead, he met a pair of wide, startled, blue eyes, framed by floppy, dark curls, in a pale, somehow fae face.

“You!” Sam whisper-shouted. “You’re the one who’s been opening my window? Who are you? What do you want, sneaking into my family’s home late at night?”

Those blue eyes – Sam thought they must be the biggest he had ever seen - closed as their owner’s face ran through a series of expressions, settling at last on resignation.

“I should have known you would catch me at some point. You’re too smart to keep in the dark for long.”

Sam wasn’t sure whether he should feel pleased by this compliment or alarmed that his sneak had been around him long enough to judge his intelligence.

In the end, he chose not to choose.

“Thanks, I suppose. But you still haven’t told me why you keep breaking in.”

His intruder’s lips pursed. “I suppose discretion is rather moot now. I have been coming here because this room is mine, and I enjoy the familiar surroundings. Thank you for keeping the sea shells. It is comforting, seeing them here still.”

“Hang on. What do you mean, this is your room? My gaffer’s boss says there hasn’t been a family living here for over a century. How can this room be yours?”

“It’s a long story.”

His intruder glanced down at paint-covered feet. “And now that you have caught me, might I have a towel and some soap so that I may wash off this…” He sniffed. “Is this paint? Sam,” his intruder said, voice a strange mix of exasperation and amusement.

“Yep. Now, you obviously know my name, but I don’t know yours, so: Tell me your name and I’ll help you clean off that paint.”

Keen blue eyes studied him for a moment. “I suppose that is fair.” Bowing at the waist, his intruder said, “My name is Frodo Baggins, and I am the true lord of Bag End.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open and he muttered a word that would get his mouth scrubbed out with soap for sure if either of his parents ever heard him say it.


	4. Chapter 3

There was a beat of silence, followed by this Frodo Baggins fellow’s lips twitching and an amused, “I assure you, male bovine excrement has very little to do with the matter.”

Sam blinked. “That sort of implies that it has something to do with it.”

Frodo pursed his lips and then shrugged, appearing, for the first time, somewhat embarrassed.

“I have spent a surprising amount of time among different herds, and you can only see so many things at once. There have been a few… unfortunately close calls over the years.”

Sam blinked again. This confrontation was not going at all how he might have expected. “Right. Well, I’m going to go get some things to clean you up with.” He grinned a little. “I’m guessing I can trust you not to wander off while I’m gone?”

Frodo rolled his eyes, though Sam could tell the irritation was, by and large, for show. “I will be here.”

As Sam crawled the rest of the way out of bed and headed down the hall to the lavatory, he wondered why he was not doing the logical, _responsible_ thing and going directly to his parents. Surely, his mother and gaffer would be better suited to dealing with some strange, misguided person claiming to be the owner of not only Bag End, but his family’s new home, as well.

But even as Sam thought about it, he knew he could not go to his parents with this.

In spite of the darkness of the early hours, Sam could see how young Frodo, and how unthreatening.

Frodo was clearly skilled enough to enter and leave Sam’s room without drawing attention to himself, and benign enough to leave the place largely undisturbed. So far as Sam could tell, nothing had been taken or added during these visits. None of his family had been hurt, and aside from Sam himself, no one had been disturbed.

Beyond all of that, there was something about Frodo, something more than his obvious youth and his strangely mature way of speaking. Frodo was fascinating, and he was confusing, and beneath all of that…

He had come here, multiple times, and remained long enough to learn more than a little about Sam.

This strange boy was _lonely_.

And Sam, who understood that loneliness all too well after a day spent among virtual strangers, in a new place, Sam, who could not help but look after his little sisters, even when they drove him insane, Sam, who was, at his core, a warm, protective little soul, could not bring himself to drive Frodo away or get him in trouble.

If Frodo had been big and grim and threatening, this night would have gone differently. Instead, Frodo was slight and of a height with Sam – perhaps a bit shorter, even – and he was soft spoken, and a bit funny. Even in the moments when that humor came at Sam’s expense, Sam could tell it was not malicious.

No, Frodo was not a threat, regardless of whatever fancies he might have about his titles and land and what have you, and so Sam felt justified in calmly grabbing a flannel from beneath the sink cabinet and quietly running it under some warm, soapy water. He squeezed the flannel out and tiptoed back to his room.

He went around to the other side of the bed after shutting the door, carefully skirting his little trap, and offered to help guide Frodo to sit on the rug.

Even through the faded brown t-shirt Frodo wore, he felt cold, and Sam hissed in surprise as he turned his companion until he was facing the window and eased him down.

“After we clean you up a bit, I’ll grab you a jumper. You’re all cold.”

“That’s alright, Sam. I can’t feel it,” Frodo said gently, as though he was a doctor delivering bad news to a loved one.

“I don’t see how,” Sam retorted, and then he felt a little guilty.

Maybe Frodo had circulation problems. Sam’s gran had them, and she was a bit sensitive about the whole thing, though Sam had never understood why. Folks couldn’t help the strange things their bodies did.

“Lift up,” Sam said once Frodo was settled on the rug. He tapped Frodo’s calf demonstratively, and Frodo lifted his feet, obliging him.

Sam took the edge of the clingwrap and folded it over so that it would be out of the way.

No sense in spreading this mess while he was trying to clean it up.

He grasped an icy ankle, and Frodo objected softly, “I can take care of it, Sam. You don’t have to do this.”

“Nonsense, Master Frodo.” He felt Frodo jolt at the title and wondered if perhaps he had gotten it wrong. That was what people called young lords, wasn’t it? He couldn’t remember.

“It was my trap that got you into this mess,” Sam went on, completely ignoring the fact that he would never have set the trap if Frodo had never started breaking and entering, “so it ought to be me who gets you out of it.”

Frodo studied Sam for a moment and then subsided, submitting to Sam’s efforts.

“Just ‘Frodo’ is fine,” Frodo said after a few beats of Sam gently scrubbing paint off of his companion’s feet in silence. “I haven’t had anyone call me Master Frodo in a very long time, and I did not think to ever hear anyone address me that way again.”

“A bit weird, then?” Sam asked, while silently wondering exactly how long it could have been. If Frodo was a day over eleven, Sam would eat his hat, and since he only had one, Sam was rather reluctant to part with it.

“Yes, quite.”

He scruitinized Frodo’s soles, the tops of feet, his toes, and his ankles, as best as he could in the faint, silvery light of the stars, and then patted Frodo’s calf. “That should do it.”

Frodo set his feet on a clear bit of flooring, peering down at them before thanking Sam.

“You’re welcome,” Sam said as he carefully wadded up the flannel and then finished compacting the confusion of plastic and paint. Then he went to his wardrobe and pulled out an old jumper that had once been a brilliant emerald green. It was still nice enough, but it had faded a little with time and washing, and it was verging on the wrong side of fitted these days.

Sam set the jumper in Frodo’s lap with a pointed look. Frodo seemed bemused, but he also could not conceal his delight at the offering, pulling the jumper on easily enough.

A perfect fit, Sam noted to himself with satisfaction.

“Thank you,” Frodo said again, running a pale, fine-boned hand over the soft blend of cotton and wool. “It’s lovely. You were right. I do feel a bit better having it on.”

Sam nodded. “Good. I’m glad.”

Though he could not, for the life of him, fathom how Frodo’s folks had allowed him to go running about with no shoes, no socks, and no jumper, in the middle of the night. But, well. Maybe they were tramps. Sam imagined a man and a woman who both looked a bit like Frodo might when he was older, along with a gaggle of brothers and sisters, all wandering about the land and pitching tents or riding in wagons like gypsies, and then he shook his head, trying to free it of all the wool he’d gathered.

“Now,” Sam said, “you really ought to tell me a bit more about why you keep coming here.”

Frodo paused in admiring his new garment, peering up through curls thrown into disarray, touseled quite thoroughly when he had pulled the jumper on over his head.

“It is not a nice tale,” Frodo cautioned. “Are you certain you wish to hear it?”

“I think I have to,” Sam said. “It sounds like you might be in a bit of trouble. Maybe, if you tell me about it, I can help.”

Frodo shook his head. “No, Sam. That is something I cannot allow you to do.”

“Oh, listen to you,” Sam scoffed lightly. “You really must be a little lord. Can’t allow me, huh? You just try and stop me. See how well that works out.”

“You’re quite stubborn, aren’t you?” Frodo observed.

With a shrug, Sam said, “Only when I have to be.”

“Hmm.”

“Look, are you going to tell me or not?”

Frodo sighed. “Yes, I suppose I must.”

And so there, in the dark, sitting on the rug by Sam’s bed, Frodo told Sam, “My mother and father had an understanding in 1838.”

Never the expected thing with this boy, Sam noted blankly.

“A what?”

“They were affianced,” Frodo said, and when that did not help, he added, “agreed to be married?”

“Oh, right. Sure.” A beat later, Sam said, “1838?!”

Frodo shot Sam a rueful look. “I promise to explain a bit more and answer any questions I am sure you will have after I am finished, but if you could hold them until the end, I would appreciate it. This is not an easy story to tell.”

Sam opened his mouth the respond and then thought better of it, settling for a nod instead. He was going to be quiet.

He _was_.

Frodo watched Sam for a wary moment and when he saw that Sam was going to behave, he said, “It was a love match, even though it was arranged. Indeed, they loved each other very much, which was not always certain for arranged marriages, or even for those who chose each other. Unfortunately, my father’s brother also loved my mother. Several of the men in the village did. She was very handsome and very kind, you see, and she had a mischievous streak that was apparently very appealing.”

“But my uncle was the only one, aside from my father, who ever acted on his affections. He proposed to my mother and gave her a golden ring, even though she had already agreed to obey the wishes of her parents and marry my father. She declined my uncle’s offer and tried to return the ring, but he would not accept it back. He placed it upon her finger, and from then on, no matter how she tried, she could not be rid of it.”

Frodo looked down at his hands where they rested primly in his lap, staring at the first finger on his left hand.

“It burned her, whenever my father made her happy – and he made her happy quite often.”

Sam wanted to ask why, if he’d loved her so much, Frodo’s father had not done something to help her. Why hadn’t he made his brother take back the ring? And how was it possible for a ring to do things like that, anyhow? It sounded as though the ring were magical, and that was just silly, because magic didn’t exist outside of the pages of his books. But he held his peace and waited.

“My parents married not long after my uncle gave her the ring, and they had me two years later, and Merry and Pippin a few years after that. They had a good life together. The villagers adored them, and their staff were proud to serve them. Everything was as idyllic as it could possibly be. And then, on a full moon night in October of 1850, it all fell apart. Our hearts stopped beating, mine and my brother’s, and that of our mother, and we began to feel this unholy thirst.”

Frodo closed his eyes, caught up in the memory. Haunted by it.

“We fled the manor, leaving my father and all of our staff behind us. We came here, to our cottage.”

“It was not until the next day that we discovered my father was dead.”

Here, Frodo smiled bitterly.

“My uncle was kind enough to tell us of my father’s death in a letter. And we have been as we were then ever since, frozen in time and ousted from our ancestral lands. The night of our change, there was a blood moon, the likes of which has not been seen since. I have heard meteorologists claim that there will be another blood moon on this All Hallows Eve, and that, Sam, is why I am here. I believe that it may be possible to break whatever spell my uncle cast upon us on October 31.”

For a few moments, the room was silent save for the sound of Sam’s breathing.

“Now, I imagine you must have questions,” Frodo said eventually, breaking the silence.

“Just one, really. Are you crazy? Or do you just have a really vivid imagination? I bet you get caught gathering wool a lot.”

“Shearing the sheep was never really one of my duties,” Frodo said, slightly perplexed. “I assure you, I’m quite sane – or as sane as possible, when I have been ten years of age for one hundred and fifty years.”

“Of course you are. And I’m the queen of England.”

Rather than taking offense at Sam’s retort, Frodo eyed him for a long, solemn moment and then said, “Give me your hands, Sam.”

“My hands?” Sam asked.

He hesitated before holding his hands out. Frodo took them with his own frozen hands, pressing one over Sam’s heart, and the other over his own, palms down.

“Now,” Frodo began, “what do you feel?”

Well, that was easy enough. Sam felt his own heart beating away in his chest, and he felt –

He felt nothing in Frodo’s. Beneath the frigid chest there was only a horrible absence.

Sam scooted forward, moving until he could place his ear against the spot where Frodo’s heartbeat should thump more than loud enough for him to hear, and still he was met with absolutely nothing.

“I don’t understand,” he said slowly, except that he had the awful feeling that he might very well be starting to put the pieces together.

Frodo, born in 1840, preserved at ten years old for a century and a half like petrified wood. The terrible thirst he’d spoken of. The stealth. The chill Frodo couldn’t seem to shake, even though it was more than warm enough in the room.

He glanced towards his desk, where _Bunnicula_ sat innocently waiting for him to finish reading the final chapter, and though he tried to resist the truth, all of the pieces of it came together.

Pulling his ear away from Frodo’s chest and then wondering at his own stupidity, Sam asked, “You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Frodo watched him in the wake of his confession and then tilted his head. “Are you not frightened, Sam, knowing now what I am?”

“No,” Sam said honestly after giving the question the careful consideration it deserved. “But it makes me sad.”

“What do you mean?” Frodo asked softly.

“Well, it’s just – you could have hurt me or my parents and sisters so many times since we moved here, and you haven’t. You haven’t even seemed to want to. So, no, knowing you’re a vampire doesn’t scare me. But… it’s just so sad, knowing that you’ve been stuck like this for so long, and you seem so lonely.”

Sam paused for a moment to try and gather his thoughts before going on.

“You know the story of Peter Pan?”

Frodo’s lips curved up ever-so-slightly at the edges. “I believe I have heard it a few times over the years, yes.”

“Well, Peter – he gets to be young forever, but he never really gets the chance to be close to anyone. Not in a way that matters. He visits Wendy after she and her brothers leave Neverland, but he doesn’t really remember her well, and when her daughter Jane takes her place… He hardly even notices the difference. And he can’t care that much for the Lost Boys, taking them off with him to fight against pirates. It’s almost as though he doesn’t know how to love at all.”

“So, you see, living forever – it seems to come at a price, and I think maybe that price is too high, or else you wouldn’t be trying to break the spell or curse or whatever it is that made you this way. And it just makes me really sad to think about you being so miserable for so long.”

After Sam ran out of words, Frodo stared at him for long enough that Sam felt heat rushing to the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks, and he ducked his head to escape that fascinated, penetrating gaze.

He felt a cold, gentle hand rest on his shoulder, and he looked up again.

“You are a very good person, Samwise Gamgee.”

Sam frowned, because he wasn’t sure what that had to do with the awful reality of Frodo’s eternal youth, and anyway, Sam wasn’t all that great. He was just Sam. He said as much, which made his companion laugh, his expression fond.

“Most people would only see the appeal of never dying. They wouldn’t even stop to consider that there might be a price too dear to pay, and they certainly wouldn’t express empathy for someone forced to pay it.”

“Maybe,” Sam said doubtfully, thinking of his mother.

She would understand. He was certain of it. He wished with sudden, startling fierceness that he could tell her about Frodo, but he doubted Frodo would appreciate Sam’s sharing his story with her, and without Frodo’s agreement, what proof would Sam have to convince her that it was all true, and not some dream caused by too many nights spent reading _Bunnicula_ and _Harry_ _Potter_ and the like?

Frodo sucked in a breath and then noted, his voice carefully casual, “You have not asked about what we eat.”

Sam stilled, his mind drawn away from thoughts of his mother, the observation as sudden and discordant in the quiet peace between them as the scratching of a record. “…You would never hurt anyone,” Sam said firmly. He knew it all the way down in his bones.

This did not, however, prevent Sam from feeling a bit green around the gills. The thought of that being one’s main – or only, because at this point, Sam could only speculate – food source was about as gross as it got.

“I might,” Frodo replied, his voice and gaze distant. “If I thought it would save my family, I might hurt my uncle and even be glad to do it. He has certainly done enough to deserve it.”

“But not me,” Sam said staunchly, refusing to be shaken. “You won’t hurt me. Or my family”

Frodo’s eyes refocused upon Sam and his lips quirked up in a bittersweet wisp of a smile. “No, you’re quite right. Nothing bad will happen to you while I am here. We never drink the blood of humans anyway. We mainly drink from farm animals. Sometimes from bears or wolves… and even,” he added slyly, “when the larger animals are not to be found, from bunnies.”

Coloring, Sam glanced towards his desk where his book sat in all its incriminating glory. “You saw that, huh?”

“I did,” Frodo confirmed. “It’s alright, Sam. There is no need to be embarrassed.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” Sam grumbled.

Frodo nudged at his side lightly, careful of Sam’s more delicate flesh, because for all that Frodo appeared waifish enough to disappear with a single strong gust of wind, his slight frame was quite powerful. Sam smiled reluctantly and nudged him back, and then he shocked himself by letting out a long, unstoppable yawn.

Blinking, Frodo glanced at the clock. “Forgive me. I have kept you up for quite long enough. You should go back to sleep, Sam, or else you will fall asleep in the middle of class tomorrow.”

“But when will I see you again?” Sam protested. “Are you coming back tomorrow night?”

Frodo eyed him cautiously. “Do you wish it?”

“Well, yeah, of course I do. We’re friends now, aren’t we? Only, could you maybe not wait until the middle of the night to show up again?”

“… Yes,” Frodo agreed after his silence had gone on long enough that Sam began to grow anxious. “We are friends. And I shall do my best to arrive at a more acceptable hour.”

“Any time after the sun goes down is good for you, isn’t it?” Sam asked as he climbed laboriously up off of the floor and into his bed.

“It is. Heavy cloud cover is also acceptable, although I am rarely able to stay awake for long during the day.”

With another yawn, Sam told him, “Then just come in as soon as I’m done getting ready for bed.” He paused and then asked, “Have you been sleeping here during the day?”

“I have,” Frodo admitted.

Sam’s eyebrows climbed their way up his forehead. “How have I not seen you?”

Frodo glanced away, and Sam had the impression that he would have blushed if he were capable. “I’ve been sleeping under your bed.”

Huh. That… should have been creepy. Scratch that. It was. It was a bit creepy. But Sam could not find it within himself to feel disturbed by it, and all he had to say in response was, “No, you haven’t. I checked under there, and I didn’t see you.”

“I’ll explain tomorrow, alright? Sleep now, Sam.” With an ironic look in his eyes, he added, “I’ll keep the other monsters at bay.”

Sam’s eyes began to drift closed without his permission. “You’re no monster,” he murmured.

“I am glad that you think so,” Frodo said, the words sounding distant to Sam’s ears.

“It’s true,” Sam mumbled, and that was the last thing he knew.


	5. Chapter 4

Sam turned, and the glimmering resolved into a golden ring, reflecting the light of the blood red moon.

He gasped and backed away, though the ring seemed to follow him.

It grew in his vision until only the ring and the moon remained.

Sam tried to run away, but the ring was nearly upon him, the moon painting its shining surface with blood.

He screamed –

And woke to the latest top 40 song to catch everyone’s fancy.

Gasping, Sam laid in bed and listened to the song intently, hoping to drown out the images of his dream with lyrics so repetitive and banal he had no hope of forgetting them later, though he was certain he would want to, once his heartrate had sufficiently slowed.

Eventually, the last few bars of the song faded away, and Sam reached over to shut off his alarm clock, certain that he would not fall back asleep even if he stayed beneath the covers for a few more minutes. It did not matter that he had been up in the middle of the night. Oh, he was sure to feel the effects of his antics later, but for now, with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, Sam felt wide awake.

He shook his head. In the early morning light, it was hard to see what was so alarming about a big red moon and a giant golden ring, but in the dream, they had felt so _evil_.

And they were, he supposed, if the moon and the ring he had dreamt of had been inspired by Frodo’s story.

At the back of his mind, Sam sensed that something about that explanation was not quite right, but he did not focus on the feeling. Perhaps it was superstitious – perhaps nothing; it _was_ superstitious – of Sam, but he suspected that if he thought too much and too clearly about the dream, he would make it real.

“Sam, love, get up! It’s time to get ready for school!”

At his mother’s prompting, Sam finally hauled himself out of bed, gathered his clothing for the day, and plodded to the lavatory. If he didn’t get in there and take his shower now, he could kiss the opportunity goodbye, because Daisy and Marigold would take over the place. He had no idea what they did to themselves in the mornings, as they were far too young for things like makeup and hair products and curling irons, but once those two set foot in the lavatory in the mornings, they did not reemerge until it was time to leave for school, and that simply would not do. Sam had no intention of marinating in his own funk for the day.

Stepping under the icy spray of the shower shocked Sam out of ruminating on the last lingering bit of horror from the dream, and as the water slowly began to heat, he relaxed.

He was fine. Everything was going to be fine.

* * *

Ted Sandyman and Otho Sackville-Baggins locked Sam in the supply closet when their teacher went across the hall to help another teacher with her projector. Thankfully, when the teacher started to blame Sam, Rosie Cotton intervened, telling her who was behind the incident.

Sam’s juice box exploded in his lunch box and left everything soggy and tasting faintly of apples and grapes.

He almost fell asleep during their History segment, and had to be prodded awake by Rosie Cotton, who had invited him to join her and her friends at lunch once again (She seemed to have made saving him her new hobby. Thank goodness for small mercies.).

By the time school let out for the day, all Sam wanted was to go back to bed and start over as though this day had never happened.

Daisy honed in on his foul mood on the way home, and she nagged at him until he told her and Marigold exactly how poorly his day had gone.

Had Daisy been a more loving sister, she would have let the matter go and left Sam to wallow in peace. As it was, Daisy pestered him all the way back to the house, and not even Marigold could curb Daisy’s… _Daisy-ness_ that afternoon.

And after all of that, Sam still had to start on the first homework assignments of the term before dinner, because teachers in the fifth form were sadistic and had apparently never learned that homework was strictly forbidden in the first week of school.

He forced himself to take his time with his maths homework and his writing assignment, in spite of the temptation to speed his way through. This way, he knew his marks would be better, and the work took him all the way through to the start of dinner, which allowed him to avoid reliving his school day for the second time for the sake of either of his parents; the twins took up far too much of their attention at the dinner table, because keeping Poppy and Posey in line was a full-time job, and it became infinitely harder when food was involved.

The moment his nightly routine wrapped, and his door was mostly closed, Sam plopped down on his bed with a grateful sigh and threw his right arm over his eyes, blocking out the rest of the world.

A faint rustling sound, followed by a gentle tugging at his arm by frigid fingers, and Sam found himself staring up into sympathetic blue eyes.

“Rough day?”

Sam groaned and reclaimed his arm. “Do me a favor: don’t ask.”

“May I take you somewhere to get your mind off of it?”

Sitting up swiftly, Sam peered at Frodo where he perched on the edge of the bed. “Where would you take me?”

Frodo offered him a mysterious smile. “Have you ever met a Faerie, Sam?”

The denial of _faeries aren’t real_ sat on the tip of his tongue, stopped only by the presence of his new friend. If vampires walked among them, who was Sam to say that anything could not exist?

What he said instead was, “We can’t be gone for long.”

Frodo stood and held out his hand. Sam stared at it for a long, silent moment.

“I won’t keep you out late, and I won’t get you into trouble, Sam. I promise.”

So, Sam stood and took his hand.

* * *

“Flying. You want to take me flying?”

Frodo sounded far too reasonable when he replied, “I promised I wouldn’t keep you out too late, Sam. The only way for me to keep that promise is for me to fly us to the Faerie court and back.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” Sam said. “Maybe, all I really need is to go to bed and pretend this entire, stupid day never happened.”

Frodo held his hand out much the same way he had before they’d both climbed out of the window and into the chill night air. “Come on, Sam,” he said gently.

And heaven help him, but Sam reached out and took his hand again, not even questioning it when Frodo pulled him close and wrapped his arms around Sam’s middle.

“Hold on as tightly as you can,” Frodo instructed, and Sam clamped his arms around Frodo’s shoulders, knotting his fingers in his own, old emerald sweater just before their feet began to lift up off of the sandy ground.

He slammed his eyes shut as his stomach swooped with terror, and he clamped his jaw down tight against the scream welling up in his throat, and…

Endless moments later, he was still fine.

He chanced opening one eye just a crack, and nearly shut it again at the wind’s bite, but gradually, he found that he could handle opening his eye a little bit more, and then a little bit more than that, and then all the way. He opened his other eye and peered down at the land passing dizzyingly by beneath him, everything remote and indistinct.

Shivering, he clung tighter to his friend and then realized, belatedly, that it was no use. Frodo was far too cold to offer any relief from the cold night air, especially at this altitude.

“We’re almost there, Sam,” Frodo called over the howling of the wind, his voice reassuring.

How? Sam wondered. Perhaps he had simply lost the ability to track the passage of time during their flight, but it hardly seemed as though they had been in the air long enough for them to have come so close to their destination – wherever that might have been.

Instead of asking, Sam looked up and gazed at the stars overhead, a thousand times brighter and more beautiful now than they had ever been when his feet were planted on the ground so far below, where the light pollution drowned out their brilliance.

Seeing the night sky this way made something in his chest clench. Maybe people weren’t meant to bear witness to so much beauty at once, or maybe, by drowning it out, they’d lost the right. Either way, it was almost too much.

True to his word, a short while later, Frodo began his descent over a large swath of tall, dense forestry. He found a gap in the trees and lowered them slowly and carefully to the loamy earth.

Sam spared a moment to be grateful he took his showers in the morning, so that he could wash the dirt off the bottoms of his feet without needing to offer anyone in his family an explanation. Then, he stepped away from Frodo and turned towards the source of the faint light he could see out of the corner of his eye.

Until he’d turned fully, Sam feared that he might see the strange images from his dreams which, in the light of day, did not seem nearly so terrifying, but held an endless horror whilst he was asleep.

Instead, he saw a woman, terrible in her own right, but only because of her indescribable, unparalleled beauty, which put Sam in mind of the millions of stars he had seen only moments before.

“I know why you’ve come,” she said, her voice a deep and rich as the sea, her face ageless and her eyes as old as the world itself.

“Will you give me the answers I seek?” Frodo asked, his own voice, already naturally given to softness, as quiet as his footsteps upon the forest floor, and yet seeming to fill up the spaces between the trees.

“You have brought all the answers you need with you.”

Frodo’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“There is no weapon, no spell, no errand which will break the curse.”

“No,” Sam objected, stepping toward the tall woman, his anger on behalf of his friend overwhelming his shy awe at her starlit eyes, her waterfall of blonde hair. “You can’t mean that. There’s got to be a way to break the curse. There’s just got to.”

She turned that piercing gaze upon Sam then, and his heart froze in his chest. “And would you still wish to break the curse, Samwise Gamgee, if it meant that Frodo and all of his family would die?”

“What?” The word fell from nerveless lips, and his legs became boneless. He had only known Frodo for two nights – the amount of hours they had spent in each other’s company could not even take up the fingers of one hand – and yet already, he could not imagine no longer having him in his life. Frodo was his friend. He was the best thing to happen to Sam since he and his family had moved to this place.

“The curse has extended each of their lives long past their natural end. Would you risk losing your friend to save him?”

How could she expect him to answer that? How could anyone?

“Sam,” Frodo said, coming closer and tugging lightly on his arm. “Come away with me, Sam. This was a mistake. I should come here alone.”

“Peace, Frodo Baggins,” she said. “You have long been a friend to my people, and I would have no quarrel with you now. Come. Let me show your friend Lothlorien, the last realm of the Fair Folk.”

As she turned away, the train of her silken white dress whispering over the grass which sprung up beneath her bare feet wherever they touched, Sam leaned close to Frodo and whispered, “Who is _that_?”

“She is Galadriel, the last queen of the Fairies.”

“And is she… safe?” Sam asked, uncertain if that was the right word, but also at a loss to find one more suited.

For the first time since the strange, wonderful woman appeared, Frodo flashed Sam a quicksilver smile. “I know that she and her people tend to be unsettling to mortals, but she won’t hurt you, Sam. I would never have brought you here otherwise.”

“…Alright,” Sam decided, as there wasn’t much else to be said on the matter. Not now, at least. Later, Sam would have a few things to say about the necessity of proper warnings before springing magical royalty upon unsuspecting human children wearing Superman pajamas.

Frodo offered his hand again, and when Sam took it, he led Sam after Galadriel and deeper into the Faerie kingdom.

What Sam saw there was not, in truth, intended for the eyes of mankind, and the memories of his time there began to fade almost as soon as he and Frodo departed. It would almost seem as though the experience had all been the result of some fantastical dream, were it not for the small, intricately carved wooden box Sam clutched to his chest.

Sam did not know what the box contained. He knew only that he must wait to view the contents of the box until the right moment – whatever moment that might be.

“Should I be worried about accepting a gift from the Faerie queen?” Sam asked as he and Frodo began their ascent into the night sky.

“Hmm? Oh, no. The stories about the Fair Folk are highly inaccurate. They are remnants of the days when mortals still acknowledged the existence of Faeries. Men would fall in love with Faerie women, and they wished to be granted immortality so that they might stay with them. These men did not understand that in giving them immortality, the Faeries lost their own. Those who received immortality believed that they had been cheated as they lost their loves, and those who remained mortal felt that they had been denied unjustly. Either way, after loving a Faerie, none of them were ever the same.”

“So, it wasn’t that the Fairies were unfair or shouldn’t be trusted,” Sam reasoned, parsing through Frodo’s explanation thoughtfully, “it was that the men had no idea what they were really asking for.”

“Exactly.”

Sam thought about this for the rest of the journey home, which, given his abstraction, seemed to go by much faster than the journey to Lothlorien.

As Frodo and Sam’s feet touched the sand outside the cottage once more, Sam asked, “Are we going to talk about what she said?”

Frodo gave him a look of polite curiosity, and Sam wrinkled his nose. He knew when he was being lied to, even if Frodo hadn’t said a word.

“Do you think the queen was right, about what could happen to you if you break the curse?”

Frodo sighed and offered him a rueful quirk of his lips. “I suppose I should have known that wouldn’t work.” He grew thoughtful, his gaze turned away, toward where the moon hung high in the sky. “What I think, is that Galadriel has spent so many centuries watching over her people, looking for the next threat to her realm, that she can only focus on the worst possible outcome.”

“That’s a bit sad,” Sam said quietly, staring down at the silvery wood of his little box and running his hands over the leaves carved into the surface.

“It is, isn’t it?” Frodo agreed. “Though I can certainly understand her perspective.”

Sam huffed lightly.

“What?”

“Well, it’s just. I sometimes think I’m an old man trapped in a kid’s body, but it’s so much worse with you.”

Frodo laughed, looking torn between being amused and offended. “Hey!”

Sam chuckled and then sobered, saying, “Thanks for taking me there. Even if I barely remember most of it.”

“You’re welcome.” He nodded towards the open window. “You should sleep, or tomorrow will be even more trying than today was.”

“Ha, yeah. Goodnight, Frodo.”

“Goodnight, Sam.”

When Frodo made no motion to follow him, Sam paused and asked, “Aren’t you coming?”

“I will, later. If you still do not mind. I need to… I’m rather thirsty,” Frodo finished delicately.

“Ah,” Sam said, nodding sagely. “Time for some delicious cow’s blood, huh?”

“Goodnight, Sam,” Frodo said again, his tone pointed, and visibly refraining from rolling his eyes.

Sam grinned and climbed into his room, only to stop and stare, dismayed, at the sight of Daisy sitting on the edge of his bed.

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” Daisy said, looking far too gleeful to have caught him sneaking into the house at night.

“Shoot.”

* * *

“How is it,” Frodo asked once he returned and found Sam and Daisy waiting for him, “that I managed to avoid being discovered by a human for one hundred and fifty years, and yet in the past two nights, two members of your family have learned of my existence?” He shook his head and apologized to Sam. “I promised you would not get in trouble. Clearly, that was incredibly overconfident on my part.”

“Oh, he won’t get in trouble,” Daisy said. “As long as he holds up his end of the bargain.”

“What bargain is this?” Frodo asked warily.

With a sigh, Sam told him, “I have to do her homework for two months.”

Appalled, Frodo exclaimed, “That’s extortion.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Daisy said blithely, “and I really couldn’t care less. If Sam’s going to let some weird kid who thinks he’s a vampire sleep in our house and then swear me to secrecy, he deserves to suffer a little.”

Frodo stared at her for a moment and then seemed to come to a decision. He allowed his feet to lose contact with the floor, rising about a hand’s span into the air.

Even given the lack of illumination, Sam could clearly see his sister’s cheeks pale as her eyes grew wide. He clapped a hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming, and wrapped his free arm around her shoulders to better control her fall in case she fainted. He glanced at Frodo, who still hovered effortlessly above the wooden floor.

“I think you’ve proved your point,” Sam said dryly. He turned back to his sister. “You can’t tell anyone, you understand? I’ll do your stupid homework, but you’ve got to keep quiet about this. Understand?”

She nodded with some difficulty, her eyes still round.

“Alright,” Sam said cautiously. “I’m gonna let you go, Dais. Just don’t scream, got it?”

She nodded again, and he slowly peeled his hand away and slipped his other arm from around her shoulders. She stared at Frodo for a long, silent moment and then said awkwardly, “Sorry about calling you weird, before. Um. Don’t eat me?”

“He only eats animals, Daisy. We talked about this.”

“Yeah, but I mean, don’t you think that’s a little unlikely, that out of all the vampires who could have broken into our house, it had to be the cute one who doesn’t eat people?”

Did she really just call his friend ‘cute’? He gave her a look. “Daisy, please don’t make this weird.”

“Who’s making it weird? I’m not making it weird.” She looked Frodo dead in the eye, clearly regaining her usual overconfidence now that Frodo had failed to make a move for her jugular. “You’re way too pretty for someone to have never said something.”

“Ah… Thank you,” Frodo said, looking every bit as disturbed as Sam felt. “Forgive me, but I am much too old for you.”

She waved that away. “Relax, pretty boy. I prefer blokes with a pulse.”

Sam buried his face in his hands. _“Why are you like this?_ ”

Daisy was eight years old. She shouldn’t like any blokes at all, pulse or no pulse.

She patted him on the head. “Guess you just got lucky.”

Lucky. Right.

“Look, are we good? Can you just go back to bed, or do you still need to stay with me?”

“I’m pretty sure knowing your pet vampire is here makes bunking with you completely useless,” Daisy said, rolling her eyes. “No offense,” she added glancing towards Frodo with a sarcastic little grin.

“Some taken,” Frodo said dryly.

“Cheers.” On that obnoxious note, Daisy got up and walked to the bedroom door, leaving Frodo and Sam staring silently in her wake.

“Sorry about her,” Sam said after the silence had drawn on long enough. “I’d say she must be some sort of changeling, but I’ve actually met a Faerie or two now, and she’s nothing like them.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Frodo told him. “Although your sister is… formidable.”

“That’s one word for it.” He glanced down at the mattress beneath him and said, “You never did explain how it was that I didn’t find you, the other day.”

Frodo looked down at the space between himself and the floor. “I rather thought the answer was obvious by now.”

Sam smacked his forehead into the palm of his hand. “The flying. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You have had a rather long two days,” Frodo pointed out reasonably.

As if on cue, Sam let out a long, huge yawn, feeling as though he practically had to unhinge his jaw in order to get it all out.

“My point exactly,” said Frodo. “I do believe your pillow is calling your name.”

“You might be onto something,” Sam admitted, turning towards the head of the bed and then crawling under the covers.

“Sweet dreams, Sam.”

“Mmm. Have fun doing – whatever it is you do.”

Frodo chuckled, and the light, pleasant sound followed Sam down into his slumber, coloring his dreams.

For the first night since he and his family moved to Grey Haven, Sam saw neither the red moon nor the golden ring. He dreamt instead of tall, silver and gold trees, and graceful, heartbreakingly beautiful maidens accompanied on a grassy dance floor by unnaturally handsome gentlemen. He dreamt of music that pierced his soul and lights that seemed to come from nowhere, decorating homes high above the ground, in the swooping branches. He dreamt of a game of tag with a boy who could fly, their laughter floating up to the canopy of leaves far above their heads.

And he dreamt of the box.

* * *

Over breakfast the next morning, Sam carefully avoided looking in Daisy’s direction. Two consecutive nights of reduced sleep had robbed him of any energy he might have had for dissembling if Daisy decided to be a pain about her little discovery – not that, as Daisy liked to point out, Sam was a particularly skilled liar on the best of days.

If the rest of the Gamgee household noticed that anything was different, they said nothing about it. Like as not, they were too grateful for the lack of squabbling between the two eldest siblings, or else too focused on all they needed to do in order to be ready for the day.

Sam’s third day of school was an improvement over his second, but considering how awful yesterday was, that wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement. He kept his head down, and his hand on the little wooden box in his trouser pocket, and did his best to ignore Ted and Otho, with limited success. They appeared to have decided over the past few days that Sam was their project for this term.

He wasn’t sure how they managed to get into his lunchbox and stuff his sandwich with snails, but he had to admit, it was at least a prank more creative than he would have considered them capable of thinking up. He could almost respect them for it if their ingenuity hadn’t resulted in Sam heaving up whatever still remained in his stomach from this morning, all over Isabel Gardener’s Mary Janes.

Rosie took Sam and deposited him in the school nurse’s capable hands, and about thirty minutes later, Sam’s mother arrived, Poppy and Posey in tow, to take him home.

“Sam, did you let the school know why you got sick?” his mother asked when they were about halfway to the house and Sam had finished explaining that she did not, in fact, need to worry about the rest of the household coming down with some sort of stomach bug.

He leveled a miserable, skeptical look in her direction. “Ma, I’m new. I’ve been a student there for three days. They’ve been going there for years, and as far as I know, none of the other kids they like to mess with have ever been able to make any of their claims stick. I don’t think the school will listen to me, either.”

His mother pursed her lips. She had strong ideas about fair treatment, and enough common sense to realize that even though it was right, it wasn’t often what people received. Ted Sandyman and Otho Sackville-Baggins came from rich families; Samwise Gamgee did not. Their family was better off now than they had ever been, with the gaffer’s new job, but they would never come anywhere close to the Sandyman and Sackville-Baggins families, and as long as that was the case, in matters where it was Sam’s word against theirs, Sam would lose.

“If I were twenty years younger, I’d just get back at the little cretins myself,” his mother said at last.

“What’s a cretin?” Posey piped up.

“Yeah. What is it?” Poppy asked, not to be left out.

“Kind of like a creep,” Sam said. “Someone who is small and nasty and doesn’t really matter much, and he picks on other people to make himself feel bigger.”

While the twins digested that, Sam looked at their mother and added, “And if you were twenty years younger, you wouldn’t have me, so there would be no reason to get back at them. Besides, it wouldn’t do any good. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, and all that.”

She huffed a soft laugh. “Who told you that you could be so reasonable and mature?” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye before refocusing on the road. “You do seem to be feeling better. You’ve got some colour in your cheeks again – other than green, I mean. I’m glad. I don’t like seeing you looking so peaky.”

They reached the cottage not long after that, and Sam went straight to his room in order to change into a pair of pajamas. He might not be ill in the usual sense, but vomiting always sapped all his energy away, and the idea of staying in his sleep clothes for the rest of the day was too tempting to pass up.

He made sure to stay quiet as he moved about his room, just in case Frodo was sleeping, and he passed the afternoon and the evening in the comfort of his bed, alternately catching up on the sleep he had missed the past two nights, reading, and daydreaming.

His mother made chicken noodle soup, just for him, and the knowledge of that warmed him even more than the soup itself. He knew it was just the kind that came from a can, but it was the thoughtfulness of it that mattered.

Ever so slowly, the day crept into night, light seeping slowly from the world around him.

Frodo appeared between one breath and the next, perching at the foot of Sam’s bed, and he peered at Sam worriedly. “Are you well, Sam? I heard you come in earlier, but I was too close to sleep to say anything.”

“I’m fine, Frodo. You don’t have to worry about me. I just got a little bit sick at school and had to be sent home.” He cocked his head. “Do you ever get sick?”

His friend glanced away, a sadness stealing over his face. “Not in the traditional sense, no. I can grow quite weak if I go too long without feeding, however, and garlic, while certainly not deadly to vampires, no matter what the stories might say, is such an overwhelming scent that we find it quite nauseating. Our senses are all heightened, you see, and garlic is pungent even to humans, so for vampires it can be nigh on unbearable.”

“So, always brush my teeth thoroughly after having Italian,” Sam said brightly. “Got it. Anything else I should know about?”

“Holy water does absolutely nothing to us. Until the moment it is used for a baptism, it is just water, and once the baptism is finished, it is, once again, simply water. Crosses only work if the people holding them truly believe in the holy trinity, and even then, I am not convinced that the crosses have anything to do with it beyond reminding people of their faith. Silver is a purifying element, and it can be quite painful – even deadly, if used properly. The sun also purifies. Its rays sting and slow us down, and I imagine being out in the middle of a desert all day would end quite poorly for me.”

He was silent for several long moments before he admitted, “I have not seen my reflection in any surface for one hundred and fifty years.” A few beats later, he added, “Should I ever lose control, you have my permission to drive a stake through my heart. I shan’t bother you or anyone else again after that.”

“Oh, let’s not talk about stakes,” Sam said, shuddering at the thought of his friend being gone for good.

“As you like,” Frodo agreed, appearing contrite. “Though I am glad that you will know, should the need ever arise.”

Sam gave him a pleading look. “Frodo.”

“Yes, alright. Forgive me, Sam. I won’t speak of it again.”

As Sam was about to respond, his bedroom door slid open, and Daisy slipped inside.

Gone was any hesitation at Frodo’s presence. Instead, she marched right up to him and said, “You have to do something about those boys in Sam’s class.”

“Excuse me?” Frodo asked, politely bewildered.

Daisy rolled her eyes. “He didn’t even tell you why he came home early, did he?” She did not wait for a reply. “The whole school knows about it – well, except for the teachers, but they never notice anything, do they? Anyway, there’s these two boys, Ted Sandyman and Otho Sackville-Baggins, and they’ve been picking on Sam for three days. Today, they made him sick. Tomorrow, they could do something even worse. So, you need to do something about them.”

“What is it you think I will be able to do?” Frodo asked, bemused.

“Well, your little flying trick worked well enough on me,” Daisy said.

“Not for long,” Frodo noted dryly.

Daisy waved a hand at him dismissively. “That’s because I got to know you. When you’re not being all vampy, you’re about as scary as a kitten.”

Frodo’s dark eyebrows rose on his pale forehead. “I think I’m offended,” he remarked, his tone mildness itself.

“No, you aren’t,” said Daisy.

He tried – and failed – to conceal a reluctantly amused smile. “Alright, then. I’m not. Suppose I did decide to frighten these two boys. How should I find them?”

Daisy offered Frodo a sweet smile, and Sam felt a chill go down his spine. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. We have a phone book.”

It was only then that Sam took note of the rather large paperbacked book Daisy held triumphantly in her hands.

He closed his eyes.

 _Great_.

* * *

Frodo returned a few hours later, climbing through the bedroom window with a self-satisfied air.

“I don’t think Mister Sandyman or Mister Sackville-Baggins will be bothering you again any time soon, Sam.”

“What did you _do_?” Sam asked, reluctantly concerned for his classmates. He knew Frodo would never hurt them, but there were infinite possibilities between giving someone a mild shock and causing psychological trauma, and he wasn’t entirely sure that Sam’s views on what would be appropriate coincided with Frodo’s own, especially since Frodo seemed to be the protective sort, and the boys Daisy had sicced Frodo on had humiliated Sam and caused him to lose his lunch.

Frodo sent him a serene look. “I don’t believe I should tell you, Sam.” He turned towards Daisy. “However, should you ever wish to know, I would be happy to share the story with you.”

Daisy, who had stayed with Sam and nattered at him while they waited, grinned and hopped up from the bed and held her hand up, palm angled towards Frodo. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Frodo stared at the proffered palm, bemused.

“She wants a high five,” Sam told him. “You know, where two people slap their hands together because they’ve done something cool. I mean, impressive. Don’t give it to her.”

“ _Do_ give it to her. I mean, me. Give me a high five, Kid Dracula.”

Frodo cocked his head and then shot Sam a mischievous look. He took another step towards Daisy and gave her palm a careful slap.

Daisy shot Sam a look brimming with smug delight, and life only went downhill from there. Whenever Daisy had a nightmare, she would sneak down the hall into Sam’s room and cook up all sorts of conspiracies with Frodo. Sometimes, their whispering woke Sam up, and sometimes he slept through it.

He preferred the nights when Daisy slept soundly – no surprise there – and he could talk with Frodo for a little while, just the two of them. He liked to ask Frodo about the different times he had lived through, and all the places his friend had been.

Frodo, after existing for so long, had hundreds of stories to tell, and he was more than happy to share them. He seemed much happier, in general, than he had been on the first night he and Sam had met. He smiled more, and his laughter came more easily.

There were some nights, though, when a sadness took hold of him and would not let go, and other nights when a deep anger would burn behind his eyes. On nights like those, Sam would talk about his own life – how his day had gone (“Yes, Ted and Otho are still leaving me alone. No, I won’t tell you if they stop.” “That’s alright, Sam. Daisy will tell me.” What Sam said after this was not something that ought to be repeated.), how he was getting on with his other classmates (“Rosie sounds lovely. I am glad to know you have a friend.” “Other than you, you mean?” “Yes, Sam.”), how his latest book was going, silly stories from when he and his siblings were younger – or he would ask to hear about Merry and Pippin, Frodo’s little brothers (The first time Sam did this, he asked, “What are your brothers like?” Frodo’s lips twitched into the first shadow of a grin Sam had seen from him all evening. “Trouble.”).

They got better, after the first week, about the length of their visits. This was a good thing, as Sam’s mother had started to take note of the dark circles under Sam’s eyes, asking questions he did not know how to answer. Naturally, Daisy had been no help at all.

Sam diligently did the majority of her homework every night, not certain that her newfound alliance with Frodo would prevent her from ratting Sam out in a fit of spite at some point. It was a good thing he was two years ahead of her in school, as he found it fairly easy to speed through her assignments before slogging his way through his own.

Through it all, Sam kept the little wooden box Galadriel had given him close by, as she had said he would know when the time came to use it, but he had no idea of knowing _how_ he would know. Sometimes, in the rare moments he had to himself, he would hold the box in his hands and talk to it, telling the box, and whatever was inside it, all about his family and his friends. His hopes and dreams. The things he worried about that seemed too silly to talk about with another person, but would not bother a little bit of wood one bit.

By the time there were pumpkin and bat decorations all over the school, and his mother had taken to playing her favorite Halloween CD around the house and burning _Witch’s Brew_ candles, Sam found it difficult to remember that his life had ever been any other way.

And then, one night in late October, with her younger sons in tow, Frodo’s mother showed up.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I’m back at last with the next chapter.
> 
> If you get the chance, go check out Nevermore by ISeeFire https://archiveofourown.org/works/27298015/chapters/66695635, and The Thain’s Messenger by Agent-Snark https://archiveofourown.org/works/27297127/chapters/66693424. They also participated in the Tale Teller’s Fright Night Challenge, and those are their amazing entries.

Primula Baggins was not at all what Sam might have expected.

In a red and beige plaid button-down and fraying, faded, button-fly jeans, with her golden curls wild and free about her shoulders, she could have been any late-twenties, early thirties woman, save for the pallor of her smooth skin.

Her bare feet, at least, Sam should have expected.

Try as he might, he never could get Frodo to take to wearing things on his pale, bony feet.

Nowhere in Frodo’s mother did Sam see traces of the Lady of a house as she once was. All he saw when he looked at the woman standing just inside his bedroom window was the protective wrath of a mother, brought to bear upon her eldest son.

“I explicitly told you not to come within a hundred miles of your uncle, and yet here you are, perfectly within his reach. What were you thinking?” She held up a forestalling hand. “Don’t answer that. I already know. Frodo, there is no way for us to break this curse. There is no spell we can do, no ritual we might perform. This existence with each other is all we have, and I will not see you throw yourself away on some half-baked scheme.”

“I’d be surprised if it was even baked that much,” Merry chimed in as he studied the notebook lying open on Sam’s desk. “These sketches are quite good,” he added, as though he had not just casually stomped all over his brother’s -

Hang on.

“What _is_ the plan, Frodo?” Sam asked, unable to help himself in light of this rather important gap in his knowledge.

“Sam!” Frodo cried, looking betrayed. He looked from one expectant face to the next. “Are you all against me, then?”

“No one’s against anyone, Frodo, except our uncle. He’s against everyone but himself,” Pippin said as he rifled through Sam’s wardrobe. Sam thought about protesting all this snooping about, but ultimately decided there was no point. Merry and Pippin weren’t harming anything. Posey and Poppy did worse while “helping” their mother with the laundry.

Mrs. Baggins eyed Frodo sternly. “Merry and Sam are right, aren’t they? You have no plan.”

Sam hadn’t quite said that.

Frodo looked as though he wanted to say something in his own defense, but he couldn’t beyond, “I am sure I shall think of something, when the time comes.”

“Whereas I am certain you will not. You will not think of anything to do with confronting your uncle, because you will be coming away with your brothers and me.”

She turned to Sam.

“Thank you for being a friend to my son. I am afraid he grows very restless at times and wanders off. I am grateful to know that he has had you.”

“I am not going with you, mother. I still have a task to complete.”

“You’re forgetting how stubborn she can be,” Merry said. “Best to just give in.”

“Indeed. Unless you wish for your brothers and myself to remain here with you.”

“That is completely out of the question,” Frodo declared, outraged. “My brothers should not even be here.”

“No more should you,” Mrs. Baggins said, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow pointedly. “Say farewell, Frodo. Perhaps, when the Blood Moon has passed, you may return and visit. But you cannot stay here.”

Frodo pursed his lips, looking mulish. “My father told me to look after you and my brothers, and that is exactly what I intend to do by breaking the curse.”

“I am quite certain your father would not see it the same way,” Mrs. Baggins replied, unmoved.

Frodo glanced between his mother and brothers, and then to Sam, visibly torn.

Sam decided to help him out. He crawled out from under the covers and went to stand in front of Frodo, who sat at the foot of the bed. Sam pulled his friend into a hug and patted him on the back.

“It’s alright, Frodo. Go on with your family, and we’ll see each other when it’s safer for you to stop by. I’ll explain everything to Daisy.”

Frodo made a frustrated sound. “Daisy. How could I have forgotten about Daisy?”

To try and lighten the mood, Sam said, “Because contrary to what she might like to believe, the world does not revolve around her.”

Frodo snorted. “I’ll tell her you said that the next time I see her.”

“You do that.”

At least that would serve as a vague assurance that Frodo would come back. Sam wanted to at least appear to believe it, for Frodo’s sake, but he wasn’t entirely convinced that Mrs. Baggins would not keep her eldest son away. Could not even find it in himself to blame her, if that was the case.

He stepped back from Frodo and then shook hands with Merry and Pippin, who seemed torn between treating this as a moment of utmost hilarity or gravest solemnity.

Mrs. Baggins took their place, leaning down to lay a kiss upon his brow.

“Be safe, Samwise.”

She slipped a piece of paper and something plastic into his palm and then rose to her full, if still diminutive height.

“Come along, my sons. _All_ of you.”

She spirited her sons away, leaving Sam gazing after them in their wake.

Eventually, he glanced down at the items in his hand.

A cheap, black burner phone, its charger, and a slip of paper with the finest handwriting penned beneath it:

“In case of emergency, please call.”

He stared down at the number and phone for a while and then placed them under his pillow, along with Galadriel’s gift. The charger he placed in a drawer in his desk.

Then he laid down and did his best to will himself to sleep, but his brain was wide awake.

He had only been asleep for about an hour before Frodo’s mother and brothers arrived, but he did not know if he would be able to go back to sleep after what had just transpired.

He kept his eyes firmly shut, hoping the lack of light would eventually coax his mind into settling down. At the same time, he shifted around, trying to find the perfect spot.

He tossed and turned for hours, but he must have drifted off eventually, because when his alarm radio began playing the next morning, it yanked him out of another dream about the box.

A tiny, pathetic noise of protest escaped him, and he mashed his face into the pillow.

Was it time for school already?

The world was a cruel, hateful place. He almost muttered something to that effect down toward the lump buried beneath his bed, because if he had to suffer, he was dragging Frodo down with him, only to stop as Sam remembered that Frodo was no longer there.

Might never be there again.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he pictured Frodo coming back fifty years from now, expecting to see Sam and finding some other little boy instead, just like Peter Pan.

Sam snorted the tears away angrily. Frodo wasn’t like that. He could be absent-minded, but he would never forget Sam. And anyway, Sam wanted his friend to be safe. It was better this way. He was _not_ going to cry over this.

“Sammy!” His mother rapped on the bedroom door lightly. “Time to get up, baby! If you don’t get moving soon, your sisters will take over the lavatory, and we both know how that will end.”

Yeah. With Daisy smug and Sam still reeking of yesterday’s sweat while Marigold lectured him on the importance of time management. Ugh.

No, thank you.

That got Sam up and moving for the day.

He could wallow at school, since Ted and Otho were still giving him a wide berth. Sam felt another pang of loneliness and shoved it angrily away. “You’re being a right ninny about this,” he told himself under his breath. More audibly, he said, “I’m up, Ma!”

“Glad to hear it. Good morning, love!”

“Morning, Ma.”

Sam’s day dragged. At least it was a Friday, which meant that he only had to suck it up for one day before he could hole up in his room for the weekend or hide out down at the beach.

That night, his gaffer asked Sam more than once if there was something bothering Sam.

“I thought those two boys had been leaving you alone for the most part,” he noted before he took a pull from his pipe.

“They have, sir,” Sam said before taking a long, slow sip of his hot cocoa.

“Hmm,” his gaffer grunted, unconvinced. “Then why the long face, lad?”

“Just missing my friends, I suppose.”

Just missing one friend, and he had not even been gone for a full day yet.

“You should give the Bolger boy a call,” his gaffer suggested. “Perhaps he’s missing you as much as you’re missing him.”

Sam doubted it. He felt a bit guilty about it, but he had not thought much about Fatty at all since he met Frodo.

Some friend Sam was.

“Maybe I will. Tomorrow, when we’re not both tired from being at school.”

His gaffer seemed to approve of this, as he changed the subject to the state of the roses in his new employer’s garden.

In between sips of cocoa, Sam bit his tongue.

* * *

Daisy crept into his room later that night, not immediately upset by the lack of her co-conspirator. “He sucking the life out of some poor cow? Scratch that. Don’t tell me.”

Sam hesitated a moment too long.

“What?” Daisy asked, her face losing its default sarcastic expression. “Seriously, Loser, WHAT? Did Vlad eat a rotten bunny? You didn’t leave any pencils lying about for him to trip and fall onto, did you?”

“I don’t know if pencils count as stakes, Dais.”

“Forget about that. What is that look on your face? What are you not telling me?”

It wasn’t that Sam wanted to keep it from her. There just hadn’t been a good chance to talk to her about it, and now he had no idea what to say.

She stared at him, a tiny vessel full of concerned fury that could probably bring down the whole house if she ever unleashed the full force of it.

Sam gave in and told her, knowing there probably wasn’t a right way to share the news, and accepting the inevitable.

Daisy threw a fit.

* * *

The next few days passed in a down-trodden haze, not even lifted by the thought of Halloween. He’d been planning on going as a vampire, as a joke. But that was the night Frodo was supposed to break his family’s curse. It was supposed to be the night Frodo finally became free.

But Frodo was gone.

On the afternoon of October 31, a tall, richly dressed older gentleman found Sam sitting at the edge of the school playground.

After a moment, Sam recognized the black-clad man as Rafe King, Lord Baggins’s PA.

“Mr. King?” Sam asked, beginning to try and ease himself away.

He glanced back towards the playground, looking for a teacher near enough to help.

That was a mistake.

Something cloying coated the cloth King placed over Sam’s mouth and nose, and no matter how hard Sam struggled, he could not move his face away from the noxious fumes.

Darkness rose up behind Sam’s eyes, sluggishness swam through his veins, and within moments, Sam was out.


End file.
